


Muted

by tjs_whatnot



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sloan wonders what the fuck she's doing there. Don listens...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karmageddon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karmageddon/gifts).



> This is a treat for Karmageddon, but basically it's just something I really wanted to see explored in the final episode of Season Two. 
> 
> Beta read by the lovely Lena3

On the next segment break, Sloan Sabbith quietly and purposefully excused herself from her seat and the set. She was already counting in her head. It was a trick she had learned as a small child that had served her well in her adult life. Whenever she wanted to rip someone’s heads off, wanted to stomp on the heart that she had just reached through their muscle and bone to pluck out, she would start counting in all the languages she knew.

Sometimes she felt she learned so many different languages just for the purpose of anger management. She was trying to remember the sign for 80 when Don Keefer found her in the dark corner she had found in the first days of her life at ACN.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed.

She glared at him. “You need to stand over there for a minute. Just one minute. Count to 60 and then come back.”

He laughed, but saw pretty quickly that she was not, in anyway, joking. Raising his hands in acquiescence, he walked out of punching distance, sat down, leaned against the wall, crossed his arms again and loudly began to count, using _Mississippis_ and everything.

She tried not to smile, but by the time she got to 100 in sign language and he got to 32, she reasoned that her counting had been effective enough and she was, in fact, calm enough to be able to use words instead of numbers. Numbers were safer, easier. Always had been.

“I’ve come to terms with how little my expertise is useful and/or appreciated here. No, don’t talk. Not yet.” He closed his mouth and nodded. She continued, “It’s fine. It’s not a glamorous subject, it’s not gossip or scandal and there are very few Breaking News moments—not many people who aren’t me and my ilk pay attention to, anyway. I understand that and still, I’m here, I’m doing the job. I’m trying so hard to make it matter.”

“I know you are.”

“Jesus, just once, one time, I’d like to be listened to, maybe even asked a fuckin’ question. And I’d really, really like to _finish a goddamn sentence!_ ” She bent her elbows, raising her hands, palms down and pushed them back to her sides a few times, as if physically trying to stomp down the flames of rage that were beginning to be re-kindled.

“Sloan, it’s election night. None of what we say matters as much as the numbers scrolling across the bottom of the screen. By this time, most people are putting it on mute and believe me, on mute, you are the only one on that stage that doesn’t read like a raving lunatic.”

She smiled and sat next to him on the floor. “Surely a first.”

“I wish I could tell you how to be heard in that room where the air is rife with sanctimony and some sort of weird unresolved sexual tension masquerading as political analysis. I wish I could suggest that you knee Will in the groin and slap Taylor’s face, but I can’t, not without ruining one of the only things you have going for you tonight.”

“What’s that? And if you say your good looks and suggest that I should sit down, look pretty and shut the fuck up, you will be the one with bruised testicles.”

He smiled. “Luckily I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say, your professionalism. Sit there and let them hooo-and-haw like the monkeys they are looking like, and be professional. If they ask you a question, _if_ they remember you are there, you answer that question as precisely and like a sound-bite as you can and you _demand_ to be allowed to finish your thought.”

She crossed her arms and leaned her back against the wall. “We’re really muted?”

He sighed. “You really are.”

They were quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Seriously,” Sloan began, “what the fuck am I doing here?”

“You teach, right? At Columbia?”

“Yeah.”

“And you like it?”

“I love it.”

“Why?”

“I really love this shit. I love numbers, I love how they affect our lives, how money can be analyzed and made sense of. How trends can be observed, predicted, followed. I love figuring out solutions, but mostly, I just like informing people.”

“Well, there’s your answer. There in your class, you’re teaching people who want to know this stuff and who choose to learn it from you. You’re basically preaching to a choir who already has the same interest. Here though, on camera, you’re educating a very uneducated mass. They are listening with ears and minds that don’t automatically work the way yours do. It has to be a bit exhilarating.”

She thought about it. “It is. Or, it would be. If I felt that anyone listened.”

“People listen. Just because very few of them are in this building shouldn’t deter you.”

She bumped into him. “You all are a bunch of idiots.”

He nodded with a huge grin. “We are. It’s true. Just imagine how very much dumber we would be without you?”

She laughed. Then with a sigh she heaved herself onto her feet and reached her hand out to him, helping him to his feet. “Seriously? You’re all lucky I’m here.”

“We really are. Thank you.”


End file.
